Sore Loser
by Deana
Summary: Bart and Bret go to San Francisco to join a poker competition, but Bart is sick and can't play. If they'd known what was going to happen next, they would never have gone, even at the chance of winning a fortune...
1. Bad Timing

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**SORE LOSER**  
>A Maverick story<br>By Deana

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"What bad timing," Bart Maverick moaned, as his brother Bret practically dragged him into their hotel room.

Bret had to agree. They'd traveled from Denver to San Francisco to get involved in a poker competition, but along the way, Bart had come down with a cold…a pretty bad one. With a sigh, Bret guided his brother to one of the beds and sat him down. "_Very_ bad timing," he answered.

Bart coughed into the handkerchief that he was holding, closing his eyes when it made his head pound. He groaned and shifted to lie back on the bed.

Bret quickly pulled his brother's jacket off and had to steer him the right way when Bart nearly missed the pillow. He tossed Bart's hat onto a nearby chair and removed his brother's boots.

Bart coughed again, barely having the energy to cover his mouth with the handkerchief. He painfully swallowed with a wince.

Taking off his own hat, Bret grabbed a chair and brought it over to the bed, sitting down and watching his brother for a minute. "Anything you need?" he asked.

"A miracle," Bart miserably answered.

Bret smiled at that. "Unfortunately, that's not something that I'm capable of…but I can get you some food, it's suppertime."

"I'm not hungry," Bart told him, eyes closed.

Bret frowned. That wasn't like his brother. "Not hungry? Are you serious?"

"Yes."

"Not even for soup or something?" Bret said. "You know the phrase; 'feed a cold, starve a fever'…or is it, 'starve a cold, feed a fever'?" He frowned. "I guess it depends on which one you are." He reached over and put a hand on his brother's forehead. "A little warm," he said. "So do we feed you or starve you?"

"Don't know."

Bret had tried to get a laugh out of his brother…even a chuckle would do, but it didn't work. He hadn't expected to find a fever, either, and now he was worried. He put his hand on Bart's forehead again to try to figure out how bad it was.

Bart shifted slightly, though not enough to dislodge his brother's hand. "Stop it. Just let me rest, I'll be fine."

Bret made a face. "I'll hold you to that," he said, removing his hand. The fever wasn't high…at the moment, at least. "I'll have the kitchen make you some soup," he said, deciding that his brother needed nourishment.

Bart's only answer was a mumble.

Bret stood and headed for the door. "I'll be back."

Bart repeated the mumble.

Bret headed downstairs, smiling at women along the way. Reaching the front desk, he said to the clerk, "I need a bowl of soup sent up to my room."

The man frowned. "Soup?"

Bret nodded. "My brother is sick." At the clerk's look of alarm, he quickly added, "He just has a cold…our journey was long and he's too tired to come down for supper. Can you send up some aspirin, too?"

The clerk nodded, grabbing a piece of paper and a pencil. "Will you be eating in the dining room?"

Bret shrugged. "I guess I'll go stay with him. Got steak tonight?"

The clerk nodded.

Bret smiled. "That's what I'll have, with all the trimmings." He suddenly wondered if Bart's appetite would return once he caught a whiff of the steak. "Can they cook up an extra piece of steak? A small one? Just in case."

The clerk nodded, still writing. "How do you like it cooked?"

"Make the small piece well done, but I like mine a little redder," Bret told him.

The clerk nodded. "I'll have it brought up as soon as it's ready."

Bret nodded. "Thanks." He walked away from the desk and looked around the dining room: the place was packed, in anticipation of the poker games starting the next day. It seemed guaranteed that Bart wouldn't be playing, but that didn't mean that Bret couldn't…though with Bart having a fever, he wondered if he really should leave him alone.

With a sigh, Bret turned and went back up to the hotel room. Heading inside, he found that Bart had fallen asleep fully clothed. He did nothing about it though, knowing that his brother would soon be woken by the arrival of the bellhop anyway.

It wasn't even twenty minutes before there was a knock on the door, and Bret opened it to find the bellboy with a wheeled cart. "I'll take it," he said, handing the boy a coin.

The boy took it eagerly, with a smile. "Thanks!" he said, before bounding away.

Bret smiled and took the cart, wheeling it over to the bed. "Wake up, brother Bart," he said. "Time for din-din."

Bart's answer was a coughing fit.

Bret walked over to the other bed and took the pillows off it, before going over to his brother, taking his arm, and pulling him upright as if he weighed nothing. He stuffed the extra pillows behind him so he was sitting up, grabbed the bottle of aspirin, and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the cart. "Here," he said, handing it to him and shaking two pills out of the bottle.

Bart took them and drank the water. The coolness felt good on his aching throat. "Thanks," he said, his voice sounding hoarse.

Bret went back over to the cart and took the covers off the trays before finding what he was looking for. He took one of the trays off the cart and sat it on his brother's lap. "Here you are, sir," he said, as if he was a waiter. "The soup of the day."

It smelled delicious…but Bart didn't know that, with his stuffed nose. He just stared at it for a moment.

Bret gave him a stern expression. "Now you listen to me," he said. "You better eat that soup, or else."

"Or else what?" Bart asked.

"Or else you can't have the piece of steak that I got you."

Bart looked up at him, to see the dish he was holding that contained a beautiful, perfect piece of steak. He loved steak just as much as his brother did, and Bret knew it. He sighed, mentally debating on what to do: he really had no appetite, but who could resist steak, hungry or not? Looking down at the soup again, Bart had to admit to himself that it would do him good, so he picked up the spoon and started to eat it.

"Wise decision," said Bret, putting the dish back on the cart until Bart was ready for it.

They ate in silence…most of the time, until a cough or sneeze from Bart interrupted it.

"There's a lot of people downstairs," Bret eventually said. "For the competition."

Bart nodded, not surprised. "I don't see myself playing…not tomorrow, at least."

"I figured that," Bret said.

"But that doesn't mean that _you_ can't," said Bart.

"Oh, don't worry," said Bret. "I fully intend on making us some good money."

Bart smiled at him. "I can always count on you, Bret."

Bret smiled, but it faded as he watched his brother for a minute. "That's if your fever doesn't get worse."

Bart looked at his brother with a frown. "I'm fine," he said, just before breaking into a coughing fit.

Bret nodded. "Yeah, you sure sound it," he said, sarcastically.

It took a minute for Bart to stop coughing, and he reached up to feel his own forehead. "It's not bad."

"Not right now," said Bret. "But it might be later." He saw that his brother had finished the soup, and reached out to take the bowl before putting the piece of steak on Bart's tray.

Bart made no move to eat it at first. He'd had to force himself to eat all of the soup, and as much as he loved steak, he really didn't see how he was going to fit it in his stomach.

Bret mistook his hesitation to mean that his brother didn't have the energy to cut it, so he took the plate and did it for him, before putting it back.

The gesture brought back memories to Bart of his big brother helping to take care of him on the occasions when he was sick as a child…it made him smile.

Bret watched as his brother ate a piece of the steak. Satisfied, he placed his own plates on the cart and moved it back near the door.

The steak was good, and enticed Bart to eat a few more pieces, but he couldn't finish it, no matter how hard he tried.

"That's good enough," Bret said, seeing his struggle. He put the plate on the cart before going back to the bed.

Bart's eyes were half-closed and he looked very sleepy. He sniffed ineffectively, sluggishly raising his handkerchief to wipe at his nose.

"You should go to sleep," Bret said. "Maybe you'll be better tomorrow and can play after all." He doubted it.

Bart doubted it too. "I can't breathe through my nose. How am I supposed to sleep?"

Bret thought for a minute. "Maybe a hot toddy will help." The two of them generally didn't drink, but a hot toddy in case of emergency certainly wasn't a forbidden prescription.

Bart tiredly blinked. His nose was so stuffed that it was making his face hurt. His head was aching and felt full of cotton and his throat was sore. He could feel congestion in his lungs; something that hadn't been there during the day, and that was definitely the most worrisome symptom aside from the fever. "All right," he told his brother.

Bret nodded and left the room, heading downstairs to the front desk. He waited for the clerk to finish with the new customer, before saying, "Can the kitchen make a hot toddy?"

The clerk nodded. "Of course. I'll send it up."

"Thanks," Bret said. He walked around for a minute again, looking again at all of the people. There were some women, but mostly men: gamblers hoping to make a small fortune.

Bret wished the same thing himself.

He looked around longer than he thought, for suddenly the clerk was calling him over. "Mr. Maverick?"

Bret saw the same bellboy holding a small silver plate, upon which sat something tall with a napkin draped over it. It was obviously the toddy, and he headed over. "That was quick."

The clerk nodded. "Did you want to take it with you, since you're still down here?"

Bret reached for it, before remembering the dining cart. "You might as well come up and take the cart," he told the boy. "Thanks again," he said to the clerk, who nodded.

As Bret reached the door, he could hear Bart coughing. It sounded worse than before, and he quickly unlocked it and stepped inside.

Bart's hand was laying atop his chest, his eyes closed.

The sight made Bret frown. He took the toddy from the boy, pushed the cart into the hall, and handed him a coin before quickly closing it and heading over. "Bart?" he said.

As if not realizing that his brother had returned, Bart quickly removed his hand and opened his eyes.

"How are you feeling?" Bret asked, thinking that he looked worse than he had before he'd left the room.

Bart's answer was another coughing fit.

Bret put the toddy down and headed over to his suitcase that was still sitting on his own bed. Opening it, he took out his clean handkerchiefs and headed back over to his brother, sticking one into his unoccupied hand.

Bart immediately dropped the old handkerchief onto the floor and held the clean one over his mouth instead. Once he stopped coughing, his hand dropped down again. "Thanks," he whispered.

Bret nodded—not that Bart could see him with his eyes closed—and grabbed the toddy. He held the warm glass to his brother's lips. "Here."

Bart was still reclined sitting up and blearily opened his eyes. He reached for the glass but dropped his hand when his brother didn't let go, and sipped it before making a face.

Bret smiled at the sight.

Bart sipped it again, not making a face that time. "It's good," he decided.

"I'm glad," said Bret. "Because you're going to drink it _all_."

Bart again reached for the glass and Bret let go. He continued to sip it, relishing in the soothing heat that it provided. It took a while to drink it all...neither brother had a high tolerance for alcohol, and it quickly made him feel lightheaded.

Bret took the empty cup from him and put it on the nightstand. "Come on, Bart," he said, taking his arm. "You're still in your clothes."

Bart's eyes were closed again, and he was obviously tipsy from the alcohol in the toddy. He mumbled a response that was so intelligible, it could've been in a different language.

Bret helped his brother change before putting him back to bed, keeping him reclined upright to help him breathe better. "Comfortable?" he asked. "Can you sleep in that position?"

"Yeah," Bart mumbled, half-asleep.

"All right, then," said Bret. "Sleep well."

Bart gave no reply, asleep already.

Bret carefully felt his brother's forehead and found the fever still low. He was relieved at that, and headed over to relax on his own bed, hoping that Bart wouldn't get worse overnight…

TBC


	2. Shoot Me

To Bret's relief, his brother's fever didn't rise much, but Bart constantly woke up coughing all through the night. As a result, neither brother got much sleep. There was nothing that Bret could do but give Bart a glass of water when he wanted it.

At the moment, it was seven in the morning, and Bart was asleep between coughing fits. Bret was up, staring out the window. There was no point in trying to sleep anymore; he knew that Bart would probably be waking again soon and would—hopefully—be hungry.

As if on cue, Bart suddenly started coughing again.

Bret turned around and headed back over to the bed, picking up the half-full glass and bottle of aspirin, waiting until his brother was able to take them.

Bart's throat was even more sore than it had been the night before, and the coughing hurt it even worse. He groaned and wrapped his hand around it, swallowing painfully.

"Here, Bart," said Bret, handing him the glass and pills.

Bart took them, wincing from the pain that swallowing caused. He lowered his hand to the mattress, eyes closed, not having the energy to put the empty glass back on the nightstand.

Bret took it from him, before feeling his forehead. The fever hadn't worsened, to his relief. "How do you feel?"

"Where's your gun?" Bart asked, his voice sounding hoarse and scratchy.

Bret didn't expect that for an answer, and looked around. "Hanging on a chair."

"Is it loaded?" Bart asked.

"Yes," Bret answered.

"Then shoot me," said Bart.

Bret almost laughed, but stopped himself; it really was no laughing matter. "I wish there was something I could do," he said. "Is there anything you need? Anything you _want_?"

"Something hot," Bart said, wrapping his hand around his throat again.

Bret nodded. He'd already thought of that…but he was going to get his brother tea, not coffee. "Some food too?"

Bart sighed, and it set him off coughing again.

Bret frowned; his brother's cough sounded worse…he could hear the congestion. "I think I should fetch you a doctor."

Bart shook his aching head. "For what?" he asked, eyes still closed. "Why pay him to tell us what we already know?" He opened his eyes slightly, looking at his brother. "I've got aspirin, there's nothing else he can give me."

That was true. Bret nodded, with a sigh. He stood and grabbed his hat. "I'll go order breakfast."

"All right," Bart said, eyes closed again.

Bart headed down the stairs and found early risers already in the dining room. The poker games weren't supposed to start until afternoon, so Bret had plenty of time to decide on whether or not he was going to play.

The desk clerk smiled when he approached. "Good morning, Mr. Maverick," he said. "How's your brother?"

Bret sighed. "Miserable. Does the town doctor keep shop nearby? You know, just in case."

The clerk nodded. "On this street." He frowned. "You don't think he has influenza, does he?"

"No, just a cold," Bret quickly lied. Influenza was _exactly_ what he assumed Bart had, but if he let anyone know that, the whole town would panic and probably throw them out. "What's on the breakfast menu for today?" he asked, changing the subject.

The clerk took out a menu from behind the counter and handed it to him.

Bret looked it over. He doubted that Bart was hungry, and didn't want to get him something that he didn't want to eat… "Besides coffee, I'll need a whole pot of tea, I think," he said. "Eggs and ham will work for me; a double helping, please. As for my brother…" There was porridge listed, and he knew that Bart _did_ like porridge, plus, it would be hot and easy to swallow. If Bart wanted some eggs, Bret could always give him some of his own…

"Porridge?" the clerk guessed.

Bret nodded. "I think that would do him good. Can you sweeten it with honey?"

The clerk nodded. "Certainly."

Bret handed him back the menu. "Thanks. I appreciate it, and Bart will too."

The clerk nodded and headed towards the kitchen.

Bret walked over to the door and looked out. It was a windy day and looked cold for October…or maybe it just seemed that way to him and Bart, after growing up in Texas and traveling all over the hot, dusty west.

He headed back upstairs and thought he heard his brother coughing, but the sound disappeared before he reached the door, and when he went inside, Bart was laying quietly, eyes closed. His hand was atop his chest again, with a handkerchief fisted in it. His face was pale under the fever flush on his cheeks and he didn't look good at all.

Bret frowned and sat on the side of the bed. "Bart," he said, feeling his forehead again. "You look terrible. Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

"I'm sure," Bart croaked.

Bret shook his head. His brother was being stubborn. "It's pretty obvious what you have, Bart. I don't like it."

"That makes two of us," Bart said. He started coughing again, covering his mouth with the handkerchief.

Bret stood, with a sigh.

Once Bart stopped coughing, he again clutched at his throat, wincing.

"They're bringing up tea and porridge for you," Bret said. "The heat should help."

Bart nodded. "Thanks." He opened his eyes and looked at his brother for a few seconds, before closing them again. "You should get a different room," he said. "So you won't catch this."

Bret shrugged. "I think it's a little late to try avoiding it," he said. "Besides, I never catch anything."

"Lucky you," said Bart, carefully swallowing as he tried to resist coughing again.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door from the same bellboy. Bret gave him a coin and took the cart in, before placing the tray of porridge on his brother's lap.

Bart swallowed a spoonful, relieved at the comforting heat. It felt wonderful.

Bret poured him a cup of tea and placed it on Bart's tray, before sitting to eat his eggs.

They ate in silence, and once finished, Bret put all the dishes on the cart, leaving a fresh cup of tea on the nightstand. "Do the aspirins help?" he asked.

"A little," Bart said.

Bret picked up the bottle to see how strong they were. "Maybe it wouldn't hurt next time to take three instead of two?"

"Maybe," Bart said. He'd certainly done that before, while recovering from being shot.

Bret had done the same himself. He put the bottle back on the nightstand and felt his brother's forehead again.

Bart tried to move his head away. "You don't have to keep doing that."

The fever wasn't any higher, thankfully, but Bret was still uneasy. He kept expecting it to get worse.

"Go play poker," Bart said, eyes closed.

"It's too early," Bret told him. "It's still morning."

"Well go whenever it starts. I'll recover faster once I see a nice pile of green paper," Bart said, with a slight grin. He shifted his position a little, and suddenly shivered.

Bret stood. "Are you cold?" Without waiting for an answer, he went over to the fireplace and threw a log in it, quickly striking a match and setting it aflame. "How's that?" he asked.

The heat hadn't had a chance to reach Bart yet. "When it gets here, I'll let you know."

Bret went over to the closet and opened it, finding two extra blankets inside: one for each bed. He brought them both over to his brother and spread one over him, leaving the other at the foot of the bed.

Bart opened his eyes. "Don't think me unappreciative, Bret," he said. "But why are you so nervous? It's not like I've never been sick before."

"You have influenza, Bart," Bret said. "That can be dangerous."

Bart knew that was true; whole towns had been wiped out by the illness. "I'll be fine," he said.

Bret said nothing, frowning when his brother started coughing again.

"Ohh," Bart moaned when the fit ended, clutching his throat again.

Bret picked up the cup of tea and handed it to him.

Bart drank it, grateful that it was hot. He looked at his brother. "I'll be fine," he repeated.

Bret nodded. "I know," is what he said, but _you'd better be,_ is what he thought.

TBC


	3. Poker Face

Time passed slowly as Bart tried to go back to sleep and failed, despite his exhaustion. He couldn't keep his eyes open, but his cough was growing worse and interrupted him every time he dozed off. His fever didn't get any higher, but it didn't get any lower either. When he finally fell asleep and stayed that way, it seemed like a miracle.

Bret was upset as he sat there watching his brother. It brought back memories that he hadn't thought of in a long time; as children, Bart had been the one to get sick the most, and he suddenly remembered a time just after they'd been drafted to fight the Civil War; Bart had been twenty-one years old and sicker than he was now. Bret remembered thinking how ridiculous it would be for his brother to die from influenza rather than a war wound.

Bart suddenly started coughing again, interrupting his brother's thoughts.

Bret stood from the chair near the window and sat in the one beside the bed. "Need anything, Bart?" He looked at the clock on the nightstand and saw that it was time for more aspirin.

Bart shook his head as he coughed.

"Here," Bret said, picking up his brother's hand and shaking three pills into it.

Bart popped them into his mouth and drank the water that Bret handed him, hoping that three pills would do a better job than two.

Bret took the empty glass and put it back on the nightstand.

Bart blinked sleepily as he looked at his brother. "What time is it?" he asked. His voice sounded scratchier and he painfully cleared his throat.

"Almost one," Bret said. "You've slept since eleven-thirty."

Bart could still barely keep his eyes open. "Go play poker."

Bret hesitated. "I don't want to leave you alone."

"Why?" Bart said. "I'm not going anywhere. Just fill the glass again and let me sleep."

Bret hesitated again,

"Go _play_," Bart said. "Win us some money and we'll leave on a train."

Bret thought for a minute. That was a good idea…they'd get a train compartment that would be just as comfortable as this hotel room. It sure beat waiting for Bart to be well enough to travel by stagecoach, which would probably take a week or more.

Bart saw that he'd struck a cord. "Go," he said again. "Take my money too."

Bret sighed, reaching over to grab the pitcher of water and fill the glass. "Fine. I'll be back as soon as I win."

Bart nodded and closed his eyes.

Bret stood, but not before checking his brother's fever and finding it still unchanged. He was relieved that it hadn't risen in all this time, which made him confident that it wasn't likely to get any higher after all. He gave his brother another clean handkerchief, made sure he was comfortable, took the money, and headed downstairs.

It was a relief to get out of the hotel room, Bret had to admit.

The clerk saw him, and smiled. "How's your brother doing?"

Bret sighed. "Still not well, but he forced me to come play."

The clerk nodded. "Good luck."

"Thanks," Bret said. There was a sign that said 'Poker Competition' with an arrow pointing to a room, so Bret headed inside where a man was speaking.

"Good afternoon, everyone," said the man. "My name is Charlie Smith. Sit yourselves down and I'll explain the rules."

Bret found the nearest seat and sat.

"Poker is poker, and I know that you all know how to play it," said Smith. "But as for this competition, the winner of each game and his competitor are the only ones who advance. In other words, there will be four to each game, and whoever folds is out for good. The winner and the man who calls him get to play again the next day."

That made sense to Bret, since those two players were obviously the most skilled.

"Everyone have your five hundred dollars to start with?" Smith asked next.

Everyone nodded.

Bret had a thousand dollars in his pocket. The entrance fee was five hundred, and you had to enter the competition with at least five hundred to bet with. Both brothers had broken the thousand dollar bill pinned inside their jacket pocket for this game, and Bret hoped that he could at least replace them, especially considering that he was also using the money that his brother had planned to enter with.

Smith then called attendance, to make sure that every registered player was present. "Bret Maverick," he eventually said.

"Here," said Bret, raising his hand. "My brother Bart won't be playing, though. He's here, but not feeling well."

"Oh," said Smith. "That's a shame." He wrote something down before calling the next name.

Soon, the tables were filled with four men each, and after introducing themselves to each other, the playing began.

Bret was glad to see 'guards' watching each table to ensure that no cheating was being done. Once his cards were dealt, he found himself with an ace, two queens, a king, and a three. It was an excellent start, and he put on his poker face before tossing three hundred in chips in the middle of the table.

Everyone else did the same.

Bret asked for one card and ditched the three. If the card he got to replace it didn't improve his hand, then he knew that he would have to sacrifice his ace, as the two queens were his strength, and the king was the next card following.

He was dealt a nine.

All four men stayed in the game, each one afraid to fold and lose their chance of playing again. The bets rose and Bret tried to keep the ace one more time, throwing down only the nine. He was dealt a seven after that, and sighed inwardly.

The bets rose as they continued to play, and Bret threw down his seven and ace, praying that he would get something good. To his shock, he was dealt another queen and a four.

Bret now had three of a kind. He threw in more chips and asked for one card, tossing down the four. When he received another king, he could have fallen to the floor. There were only three other hands that beat a full house, and he was willing to bet that no one at his table had one of them. Even if one of them had a full house too, his was queen's high, so the other player would have to have three aces and the other two kings to beat him, which was not likely.

Bret threw in the rest of his chips and asked for no more cards.

Everyone looked at him, and two of the players immediately folded. The remaining player, a man named Gus Peters, looked at Bret with confidence and pushed all of his chips into the middle of the table.

Bret inwardly gulped. He'd been counting on winning this game for Bart's sake. He had no more chips, and there were only two things left that he could do: fold, which would make Peters the winner, or call and hope that he had the better hand. "I call," he said.

Peters had hoped that Bret would fold, but smiled and laid down his cards. He had a straight, with the king high.

Bret almost fainted. He had won. He laid his cards down, displaying his three queens and two kings. "Full house for me," he said nonchalantly, raking in the chips. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him: he had been the one to call _and_ the winner of the game, which meant that Peters couldn't play again!

Peters seemed to come to the same realization, and jumped up from the table, storming off.

Bret swept the chips into his hat, guessing that there was over seven thousand dollars there; Peters had brought a lot of money to the table, and had bet every chip he had.

Peters suddenly came back with Smith. "He called _and_ won!" he complained, pointing at Bret.

Smith frowned. "I didn't think of that," he admitted. "Which cards were yours?"

Peters showed him his straight, which was a respectable hand.

"I'll have to change the rules," said Smith. "The final two players in the game get to advance, or else this could be a very short competition!"

Peters was relieved. "Thanks." He looked at Bret. "I'll be seeing _you_ tomorrow." With that, he left.

Bret watched him go. _No you won't_, he thought. He stood and took his hat full of chips over to the 'banker', and cashed them in.

Bart was awake when Bret came back in, having just coughed his lungs out again and sneezed hard enough to make his head spin. "How much did you win?" he asked, never thinking that Bret could've lost.

"You won't believe it," Bret said, putting down the fresh pitcher of water that he'd brought up and rushing over to sit in the chair beside the bed. "Eight thousand dollars!"

Bart's eyes were closed, but they popped open. "Eight thousand?"

Bret nodded, taking the money out of his pocket and fanning out the bills to show him.

Bart smiled. "I knew I could count on you, brother Bret."

Bret chuckled, before standing and taking a thousand dollar bill and pinning it in the inside pocket of Bart's jacket. He then did the same with his own, before splitting the rest and putting it inside both of their wallets. "The man I beat was a sore loser," he remarked.

"I'm sure," said Bart. "That's a lot of money to lose."

"Yeah," Bret nodded. He came back and felt his brother's forehead, before frowning.

"What?" Bart asked.

Bret sat on the side of the bed and used the back of his hand to feel his brother's cheeks, before feeling his forehead again. "Your fever is higher."

Bart didn't expect to hear that. "Are you sure?"

Bret nodded, before standing and fetching a towel and the new pitcher of water. He poured some into the basin and wet the towel in it before placing it over Bart's forehead.

The water felt very cold to Bart, and he flinched. "Oh, _Bret_…"

"It's not as cold as it seems," Bret said. "Don't you give me any lip; it's staying there."

Bart sighed, which set him off coughing.

Bret echoed the sigh. He had a feeling that it was going to be a very long night.

TBC


	4. Gone

Bret was right.

Bart's fever climbed even higher as the night went on, and when he woke coughing, he was often unaware of his surroundings. Sometimes he just stared at nothing, glassy-eyed, something that was scary for Bret to watch.

"You told me that you would be fine, Bart," Bret said, as he patted the wet towel over his brother's face. "I'm holding you to that."

Bart didn't answer, eyes half-closed, blinking dazedly.

Bret laid the cloth over Bart's forehead and sighed, looking at the clock and seeing that it was two in the morning. He looked back at his brother to see Bart's eyes still open. "Bart?" he said. "Can you hear me?"

Bart didn't answer.

Bret sighed and tiredly rubbed his eyes, jumping slightly when his brother suddenly spoke.

"Where are we?" His voice was quiet and slow.

Bret looked at him again. "We're in a hotel in San Francisco, remember?"

Bart slowly blinked, his eyes staying closed. "What?" he eventually said.

"San Francisco," Bret repeated.

Bart reopened his eyes slightly.

"How do you feel, Bart?" Bret asked, pouring a glass of water and holding it to his brother's lips.

Bart was still reclined sitting up to aid his breathing, which was noisy with congestion. He obediently drank, but didn't seem to have heard the question.

Bret put the glass back on the nightstand and removed the cloth from his brother's forehead to check his fever, finding it still too high.

Bart closed his eyes, and they stayed closed.

The rest of the night passed at a snail's pace, and Bret eventually fell asleep in the chair beside the bed.

When Bart started coughing again, Bret jumped, startled. The first thing he noticed was the bright sun shining through the window.

Bart held the handkerchief over his mouth as he coughed, thoroughly sick of being sick. His chest was aching now thanks to the congestion, and even after the coughing fit ended, his breathing was noisy.

Bret poured a glass of water and helped his brother drink it, before taking the now-dry cloth off Bart's forehead. He found his fever still high, and was dismayed at the fact that he'd fallen asleep. He felt guilty.

Bart's eyes were closed, and he appeared to not notice what was troubling his brother.

"Bart?" Bret said. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah," Bart said, without opening his eyes.

"Do you know where we are?" Bret asked.

"San Francisco," Bart mumbled.

Bret was glad to hear that, relieved that his brother was lucid. He hoped it meant that his fever was dropping.

"Did you…win again?" Bart asked. He sounded weak and his voice was extremely hoarse, probably from all the harsh coughing.

Bret frowned. "It's only—" He looked at the clock, and inwardly groaned. "Seven in the morning."

"Oh," Bart whispered.

"I wasn't going to play again," Bret said. "We planned to take a train out of here, remember?" He realized that they couldn't leave today after all, not with Bart's worsened condition.

"Oh," Bart said again, still not opening his eyes.

Bret rewet the towel and patted it over his brother's face before placing it back on his forehead. "This might be the dumbest question you'll ever hear, but do you feel any better?"

"No," Bart mumbled.

Bret sighed. He opened his mouth to ask his brother if he wanted to eat, but Bart started coughing again. The coughing fit was long and hard, leaving Bart wincing when it was through.

Bret sighed as he patted the wet cloth over Bart's face again. "Try to go back to sleep, Bart," he said.

Bart gave no answer, but after a minute or two, his body relaxed, showing that he'd taken Bret's advice.

As Bret gently placed the wet towel over his brother's forehead again, he realized that Bart had never opened his eyes.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_Bart smiled as he laid down his cards: a royal flush, the best hand a poker player can have. "Looks like I win," he gleefully exclaimed, as he raked in the chips on the table. The pile was immense, containing over fifty thousand dollars, a pocket watch, the deed to a saloon, and an IOU for a sheep._

_"Oh no you don't!" one of the players exclaimed. He took out his gun and fired pointblank at Bart's chest._

_The bullet had no effect, as if the man had missed. Bart looked at him. "What'd you go and do that for? Now you made him angry."_

_"Who?" asked the other player._

_"Me," said another voice._

_Bart smiled as he admired the pocket watch, not even looking up as Bret stormed over to the man, took the gun out of his hand, broke it in half as if it was a stick, and threw it. He then lifted the man into the air by his collar with one hand before heading over to the saloon doors and flinging him out, where he sailed through the air and over the roof of the bank across the street._

_Bart was counting the money as Bret came back. "Thanks, brother Bret," he said. "I can always count on you." With that, he handed him the IOU for the sheep._

Bart woke up laughing. Hands were shaking him, but he continued to laugh until it turned into coughing.

Bret watched, puzzled. When his brother had suddenly laughed in his sleep, he'd assumed him to be delirious again. "Bart?" he said.

Bart continued to cough, before groaning and then laughing again. "A sheep!" he whispered hoarsely, his voice all but gone. He sneezed, with another groan.

Bret frowned and took the wet towel off his brother's forehead to check his fever, which had remained high all day. With shock, he found that it was much lower, and suddenly noticed that Bart was covered with sweat. "Your fever broke," he said.

Bart was still chuckling as he remembered his dream. Suddenly, his brother's words cut through. "Huh?" he said, opening his eyes.

Bret was smiling too. "Your fever is a lot lower."

Bart blinked and shifted a little, realizing that he was drenched. "Oooh," he moaned. "I need a bath."

"You also need to tell me why you woke up laughing about sheep," said Bret, with a puzzled frown.

Bart laughed again, but it turned into more coughing.

Bret sobered. His brother's fever may have fallen, but he was still very sick. "I'll get some hot water brought up."

Bart nodded, with another sneeze.

Less then ten minutes later, the tub in their private bathing room was filled, and Bret pulled back the covers and helped his brother sit up.

Bart was surprised when the room spun around him for a few seconds, though he knew that he should've expected it.

Bret noticed, and held his arm tightly. "Take it easy," he said. "You've been lying down since we got here."

"I know," Bart said, blinking.

Bret helped him stand up, aware that the high fever had weakened his brother, which was obvious by how slowly Bart walked.

Once they got into the bathing room and Bart saw the tub of hot water, he wanted nothing more than to get in and soak away his assorted pains. When they reached the tub, Bart said, "I can get in myself."

"You sure?" Bret asked.

Bart nodded, which was a mistake with his aching head.

"All right," Bret said, hesitantly. "If you miss, call me." He was only half-joking.

Bart smiled.

Bret went back into the other room and started to tidy it up, locating clean sheets and pulling the sweaty ones off his brother's bed before going back over to the door. "You make it in all right?" he called.

"Yup," Bart called back, very hoarsely.

Bret was relieved, and changed the sheets before going back to the door. He was about to ask if he could come in, before remembering his brother's lack of a voice and not wanting him to yell another answer, so he opened the door and went inside.

Bart had his eyes closed as he reclined in the tub.

Bret grabbed a chair and brought it over. His brother's nightshirt was on the floor, so he kicked it away before putting the chair down and sitting. "Don't fall asleep in there."

"Mmm," Bart mumbled.

"Am I correct in assuming that you had a dream about sheep, of all things?" Bret asked, picking up the bar of soap and tossing it up and down.

Bart opened his eyes with a smile and looked up at him. "In a way."

Bret listened as Bart told him the dream. He smiled and shook his head. "So you got fifty thousand dollars, a watch, a saloon...and all I got was a _sheep_?"

Bart shot him a wounded expression. "Of course not, brother Bret…you got an _IOU_ for a sheep!"

Bret made a face and tossed the soap into the water, making it splash.

Bart started laughing again, but it quickly turned into harsh coughing.

Bret frowned. "Stop laughing before you hurt yourself."

Bart winced. "Too late," he hoarsely said, in between coughs. After the coughing died down, he was quiet for a minute, before asking, "Are we still leaving today?"

"I don't know," said Bret. "You're in no shape."

It was another minute before Bart replied again, nearly falling asleep in the wonderfully hot water. "What about the sore loser?" he asked.

Bret thought for a minute. He had no intention of playing that man again; having a feeling that violence would result if he beat him a second time. Plus, with Bart being sick, there was no way that Bret would risk losing the money that they needed to pay for shelter with. "Maybe you're right, we should leave," he said.

Bart nodded. "Just throw my clothes in here."

Bret nodded back and stood. He left the room and came back with his brother's suit and laid it over the chair. "Call me if you need a hand," he said.

"Mmm hmm," Bart said, half-dozing off again.

"Bart."

"Mmm."

"Wake up."

With effort, Bart tiredly opened his eyes. He could barely keep them open.

Bret sighed. His brother needed rest. He wondered if they should stay where they were for one more night, before he remembered the sore loser again. No, it was safer for them if they left. Looking at Bart again, he saw that he'd closed his eyes once more. "Wake up."

Bart opened his eyes and looked up at him, before going into a coughing fit.

Bret fetched some towels out of a cabinet and placed them on the chair. "After you're dressed, I'll go buy the tickets."

"Okay," Bart said.

Bret went back into their room and repacked their things, before hearing the bellboy in the hall and asking him to bring up a pot of tea.

By the time Bart shuffled back into the room, dressed except for his jacket, with his wet hair sticking up, the tea had arrived and Bret was pouring it.

"You missed breakfast _and_ lunch," said Bret.

Bart frowned as he reclined on his bed again, having not realized what time it was.

Bret handed him a cup and a plate with buttered toast on it. "Here. I'll be back in ten minutes."

"Thanks," Bart said.

Bret nodded and left. The train station wasn't far, and he bought the tickets and went right back to the hotel. It actually took only eight minutes, and when he headed back inside and up to their room, he opened the door quietly, in case Bart was asleep.

What Bret saw inside the room—or rather, what he _didn't_ see—shocked him.

Bart was gone.

TBC


	5. Where's Bart?

Bret frowned and looked around the room. "Bart?" he said. He got no answer and headed into the bathing room, finding him not in there either. "Bart!" he exclaimed.

No answer.

Bret left the room and headed back downstairs. The clerk wasn't at his desk, and Bret pounded on the bell until he appeared.

"Mr. Maverick!" said the clerk. "What's the matter?"

"Did my brother come down here?" Bret demanded.

The clerk shrugged. "I don't know…I don't really remember what he looks like, I only saw him for a minute when you two arrived."

Bret sighed. "He's dressed similar to me, younger, thinner, beige hat..." He blinked. "If he _has_ his hat."

The clerk shook his head. "I wasn't out here all this time, I'm sorry."

Bret walked away from the desk and looked inside the gambling room. The games were over for the day, and there was no one inside. A search of the dining room turned up nothing either.

"Why are you so worked up?" the clerk asked after Bret returned. "He must be feeling better and went out."

Bret shook his head and pushed his hat back. "He _wasn't_ feeling better. There's no way he went out." Suddenly, he spotted something in the message box for his room. "What's that?"

"Oh!" said the clerk, pulling it out. "One of the other contestants asked me to leave this note for you."

Bret took the folded paper and opened it. He frowned and showed it to the clerk.

It was a blank piece of paper.

"What does it mean?" the clerk asked.

"Was it Gus Peters?" Bret asked.

The clerk thought back. "Yes, I think it was."

Bret crumbled the paper up. "It was a trick to find out which room I have, by watching to see which box you put this in."

The clerk looked shocked.

Bret left the hotel and looked around. People were going about their business, having no idea that an abduction had just taken place. He ran across the street to the sheriff's office, but found it empty. Looking up and down the street, he realized that he had no idea where to look for his brother. He quickly ran back to the hotel and went back inside. "Which room is Peters'?" he asked.

"Number 4," the clerk told him.

Bret bounded up the stairs and grabbed the handle to Peters' room. The door was locked, so he kicked it in, but found it empty. He checked his own room one more time before going back downstairs. "Peters wants his money back," he told the clerk.

"But what good is it to kidnap your brother?" the clerk asked.

Bret shook his head with a sigh, before leaving the hotel again. He had to find Bart…somehow.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A wagon bounced its way along with Bart tied up in the back. He had no idea where he was being brought, and lay limply, constantly coughing. He winced at the added pain that the motion was causing to his pounding head, and he was glad that his abductors hadn't knocked him out at least; his head hurt enough as it is.

"Shut up!" he heard.

Bart tried to stop coughing, succeeding after a few seconds. It wasn't easy to hold it in, but he somehow managed.

Eventually, the wagon stopped, and hands reached in to pull him out. He had no choice but to submit, and was surprised to see that it had started to rain. Soon he was being pulled inside a shack by two men, where he was pushed to the floor.

Bart landed against a wall, and was able to remain sitting up. He started coughing once more.

Peters turned to close the door, before looking at Bart again. "Shut up!" he repeated.

"I'd…love to…really," Bart said in-between painful coughs.

The other two men watched. "Lookit 'im," said one of them. "He's shaking like a coward!"

"I'm wet and _cold_," said Bart, hoarsely. "I'm from Texas, you nitwits. Plus I have a fever. Come a little closer so I can give you influenza; it's just what you deserve."

The men stepped back.

Bart chuckled, but it turned into more coughing and a sneeze, which made the men step back even more.

Gus ignored them and stepped forward, crouching before Bart. He either thought that Bart was exaggerating or even faking to keep them away from him…or maybe, like Bret, he never caught anything. It'd be a shame if it was the latter. "You know why you're here, right?" he asked.

Bart nodded. "Because you're a sore loser." A second later, he saw stars when Peters backhanded him.

"Because your brother didn't do the honorable thing by giving me a chance to win my money back!" Peters exclaimed.

Bart's eyes were closed tightly as his head painfully rang from the blow. It already hurt enough from his illness; being struck was exactly what he _didn't_ need. "And harming _me_ is honorable?" he countered.

"Why didn't he continue the competition?" Peters asked. "He took my money and ran."

"He didn't _take_ anything," Bart said, opening his eyes. "He won it fair and square. He didn't play again because he was nursing me through a high fever…and _that_ was honorable." It was slightly a lie, as Bret had decided not to play him again _before_ Bart's fever had risen, but oh well. With that, he started coughing again.

Peters stood and looked down at him. "I want my money back."

"Then you shouldn't have played!" Bart said. "You expected to win the whole competition?"

The man hesitated.

"Didn't you win money today?" Bart asked, before it suddenly hit him. "You lost," he said. "You played today and lost."

"Yes, I played today and lost, and can't continue competing," said Peters. "Does that make you happy?"

Bart shook his head. "No, but it _is_ funny," he said, with a chuckle.

Peters' face darkened. "Funny?! Why is it funny?" he demanded.

"Because you're wasting your time," Bart said, his voice getting hoarser the more he spoke. "You were destined to lose anyway. My brother beat you yesterday, so what makes you think you would've beat _him _today?"

Peters inwardly fumed. "I want my money back." He suddenly blinked. "How do I know that _you_ don't have it?"

"Why would _I_ have it?" Bart asked. "This is the first time I've been out of bed for two and a half days." He was suddenly relieved that he'd been dressed when his kidnappers had arrived, and not still in his nightshirt!

"Search him," Peters told his henchmen.

The two men hesitated slightly—not wanting to catch influenza—but obediently knelt and checked Bart's pockets.

Bart let them, since he _didn't_ have the money, and when they were finished, Bart purposely started coughing again, just to see them jump—which they did.

Both men quickly stood again and backed away. "He doesn't have it," one of them said.

Peters sighed. "Too bad. That would've made things a lot easier." He looked at Bart. "Fine. You'll just have to remain my 'guest' until your brother brings me my money."

"Does he know that you took me?" Bart asked, wondering if a ransom note had been left.

Peters smiled. "I'm sure he's figured it out by now, and has been frantically searching for his poor, sick brother." He looked at the two men. "Don't let him out of your sight. I'll be back."

The two men nodded, taking out their guns and pointing them at him.

With that, Peters left.

Bart watched him go and sighed inwardly, shifting to try to get comfortable where he sat on the floor against the wall, wishing that his wrists weren't tied behind him. He could hear the rain falling and felt a chilly draft against his back, making him shiver. His head was throbbing and his throat was still killing him, nevermind the ache in his chest from the congestion that he could hear with every breath he took.

Closing his eyes, Bart wished they'd never come to San Francisco.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Bret was _really _getting upset. He couldn't find a single person who'd seen Bart leave the hotel, mainly because no one knew what Bart looked like—since literally no one had been introduced to him. Some of the gamblers knew Peters', but none of them saw him leave, either. Therefore, it was a shock to Bret to suddenly see Peters strolling along in the rain as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Bret hid in a nearby alley until Peters reached it. He then stepped out, gun drawn. "Where's my brother?"

"Well well well, Mr. Maverick," said Peters. "Fancy meeting _you_ here. I haven't seen you since last night." The last bit held obvious sarcasm.

"Bart and I were just about to leave town," said Bret. "But he _mysteriously_ disappeared. Now I'll ask again: where is he?"

"Safe," said Peters. "Until I get my money back."

"Fine," said Bret. "I have it all."

"Do you?" said Peters. "You didn't spend _any_ of it?"

Bret frowned. "Not any of yours."

"Uh uh," said Peters. "I want it _all_…every dime that was in the pot."

"The rest of the money had nothing to do with you," said Bret.

"Either way," said Peters. "I want _all_ of it. Isn't your poor sick brother worth it?"

Bret's face darkened. "You'd better not hurt him."

"And I won't," said Peters. "As long as you hand over eight thousand dollars."

"I spent some of it on train tickets," Bret said.

Peters *tsked*. "Then your brother will remain my prisoner until you can give me the full amount," he said, before turning and walking away.

Bret holstered his gun, walked forward, and grabbed Peters' arm, spinning him around.

"If you want me to shoot your brother when I get back there," said Peters. "Then by all means, hit me." At the look on Bret's face, he quickly clarified, "Oh, I didn't say _kill_ him, I said _shoot_ him…in the arm, the leg, who knows; it'll depend on my mood at the time."

Bret's fist was raised, and it wasn't easy to lower it, but he did.

"I'll be back at six o'clock," said Peters. "You better have my money."

"You better have my brother," Bret growled. "_Unharmed_."

"We'll see," said Peters. With that, he walked off.

TBC


	6. The Deadline Approaches

Back at the shack, Bart felt awful. With his hands tied behind himself, he couldn't get the handkerchief out of his pocket, so he had no way of blowing his nose. "Come on, fellas," he said. "Untie me. I won't get away; you still have your guns."

The two men shook their heads, from where they sat on nearby chairs. "Gus will kill us if he comes back to find you untied," one of them said.

Bart groaned. He closed heavy eyelids, wishing that he could just fall asleep. His lungs protested that notion and he started coughing again. He shivered when a sudden chill overtook him, and he wondered if his fever was rising again.

The two men silently watched him, until one of them spoke to the other. "He don't look too good, Billy. You think he's dyin'?"

Billy shrugged. "Dunno."

The other man sighed, still afraid to catch what Bart had.

Bart tried to shift his position as much as he could, but there was no way to get comfortable while sitting on the floor tied up. He coughed again, and winced. "Could I at least have some water?" he asked, his throat very parched.

The two men looked at each other, each of them wondering if water would help stop the annoying coughing. Billy stood and holstered his gun, going for a canteen that was hanging on a hook near the door. He had to step over Bart's legs to get there, and Bart resisted the urge to trip him. Billy grabbed the canteen and opened it, crouching before Bart and holding it to his lips.

"If you untie me, I can do it myself," Bart said.

Billy just looked at him.

"I didn't think so," Bart said. He drank the water, relieved that they'd actually let him have it. After he drank as much as Billy let him have, he leaned his head back against the wall. The wall stopped his head, but his brain seemed to still be moving and he closed his eyes against the sudden vertigo. Another chill made him shiver.

Billy stood and sat in his chair again; just in time to witness Bart shiver. "Do you think we'll catch what he has, Dave?" he whispered.

Dave shrugged. "I hope not…I _really_ hope not…"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After Gus Peters made his demand to Bret and left, he knew that Bret would need to borrow from someone the money he'd spent. He didn't doubt that Bret would succeed.

However, Bret had no intention of raising the rest of the eight thousand dollars. If Peters had brought Bart with him and made the trade, that was different, but after Peters had made the threat of shooting Bart, Bret wasn't going to sit around waiting for six o'clock. He had no idea where Bart was or what shape he was in, so there was only one thing that Bret was going to do…

Follow Peters.

It started out well, with Bret quietly tailing him, but when he went around a corner, Peters was unexpectedly gone. Bret was taken by surprise and looked around, but he didn't see him anywhere. The rain suddenly grew heavier, and for a moment, Bret didn't know what he was going to do. Should he continue on and possibly go in the wrong direction, potentially missing the six o'clock deadline, or should he go back to town and figure out a way to raise the rest of the money?

Suddenly, it hit him: Bart hadn't played in the poker competition, so he should be able to get his entrance fee back!

Reluctantly, Bret turned back towards town, galloping off to the hotel.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Peters looked out one of the shack's windows at the falling rain. It had grown heavier and was now accompanied by thunder and lightning. There were two hours left until six o'clock, and he was getting antsy, wishing that he had given Bret an earlier deadline.

The sound of coughing caught his attention, and he looked down at his captive.

Bart still sat against the wall in the same place on the floor, eyes closed. He seemed to be in worse shape now than he'd been earlier, coughing even more and looking miserable. His breathing was very noisy and his face was flushed, making it obvious that he had a fever.

"You think he might die before six o'clock even comes?" Dave asked Peters.

Peters looked at him. "He's not dying, you fool. Haven't you ever had influenza?"

"Once," Dave said. "But I didn't sound like _that_."

Peters had to admit to himself that Bart did seem to have a particularly bad case, but before the conversation could continue, Billy came in the door wearing a slicker with firewood tucked inside it. He went over to the fireplace and dropped a log in before lighting it. The weather was colder than usual, and the chilly wind blowing through the cracks in the shack certainly wasn't helping.

When Bart heard the crackling fire, he opened his eyes halfway and blinked at the flames. "What time is it?" he croaked.

Peters didn't answer, so Dave took out his pocket watch. "Four."

Bart closed his eyes with a groan. _Still two hours left_, he thought, with dismay. His body was cramped—and numb in some places—from sitting on the floor for so long, and he wondered if he'd even be able to walk when the time came to leave. _Please, _he prayed. _At least make the rain let up by then…_

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When Bret arrived back at the hotel, he immediately sought out Mr. Miller, the head of the poker competition. He found him in the diningroom having an early supper, and quickly sat down at the same table, taking Miller by surprise.

"Mr. Maverick?" he said.

"Can my brother have his entrance fee back?" Bret asked. "Since he didn't play?"

Miller blinked. "I suppose," he said. "But he'll have to cash a check at the bank."

"Can you give the check to me?" Bret asked.

Miller shook his head. "It's _his_ fee, so the check will have _his_ name on it."

Bret shook his head. "Look, Gus Peters kidnapped my brother and demanded ransom; the money that I won yesterday."

"He _what_?" Miller exclaimed.

Bret nodded. "The only problem is that I spent some of it. I only have until six o'clock to raise the rest."

Miller looked shocked, before his expression turned suspicious. "How do I know you're telling the truth, and not just trying to steal your brother's money?"

Bret sighed; he had a feeling he was going to say that. "Ask the desk clerk," he answered. "In fact, ask _anyone…_no one else but him knows that Bart was abducted, but everyone in town can tell you that I've been looking for Bart for over an hour. If the sheriff hadn't left town, he'd be helping me look."

Miller still looked skeptical, so Bret stood up and went to the diningroom doors, before motioning for someone to come over.

The desk clerk entered the room a few seconds later, and followed Bret over to the table.

"Tell him what happened to my brother," Bret said.

The clerk looked at Miller. "Gus Peters kidnapped him. He asked me to put a note in the Maverick's mailbox so he could see what room number they were in. Then when Mr. Maverick here went to buy train tickets, Peters went up to their room and abducted his brother."

"When Peters came and demanded the money, he threatened to shoot him," Bret cut in. "_Please_, Mr. Miller."

Miller thought about it for a minute, before nodding and taking a checkbook out of his pocket. He quickly wrote it out before handing it over.

Bret looked at it: five hundred dollars. He smiled at Miller with gratitude. "Thank you, sir…and Bart would thank you too, if he was here."

Miller nodded. "I hope you get him back safely."

Bret sighed. "I hope so too." With that, he quickly left.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Dave and Billy stared at Bart, who still sat up against the wall, barely awake. It was obvious that he had a high fever, and his half-conscious state had him coughing less, which made his breathing even noisier.

"How can you keep him in here like that?" Dave asked Peters. "He's gonna get us all sick!"

Peters sighed. "I didn't realize how sick he was. All his brother said was that he wasn't feeling well."

"_That's_ an understatement," said Billy. "You should throw him outside!"

"So he can escape? No." Peters countered. "It's too late now anyway, we've already been exposed." He looked at his pocket watch. "Besides, it's already five. We'll be leaving soon."

Dave sighed heavily.

It didn't take long for another half-hour to pass, and suddenly, Bart was brought back into awareness by a pair of hands grabbing each of his arms and pulling him upright. He immediately started coughing; apparently right into someone's face—which was obvious by the exclamation of dismay that he suddenly heard—and was roughly pulled outside and manhandled onto a horse, with his hands still tied behind him.

Peters realized that Bart was in very real danger of falling off the horse like that—not that he cared, but he didn't want to have to stop to get him put back _onto_ the horse—so he had Billy tie his wrists in front of him on the saddlehorn instead.

As they rode off, Bart realized that he actually had something to be _glad_ about; his prayer to stop the rain had been answered.

TBC


	7. The Rescue

Bret paced in the hotel lobby. It was almost six o'clock, and since Peters hadn't told him to meet him anywhere in particular, he assumed that he—or someone, anyway—would be going there to get him. He wasn't disappointed; at 5:58, a man poked his head into the hotel and beckoned to him.

Bret immediately followed him out. "Is my brother all right?" he asked.

"I can't answer any questions," Dave told him. "Just follow me."

Bret obeyed, with a sigh.

Dave led Bret out of the town and over to a cluster of rocks where they couldn't be seen by anyone. He took out his gun and pointed it at Bret. "Your gun."

Bret didn't like that, but he knew that he had no choice. Reluctantly, he took it out and handed it over.

Dave took it. "Stay here," he said.

Bret obeyed, looking around and seeing nothing but the rocks, which Dave disappeared behind. "Peters?" he called.

"Right here, Maverick." Peters stepped out from Bret's right, and walked over to him.

"Where's my brother?" Bret said.

Peters gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. "Right over there, taking a nap."

Bret frowned. "You don't get a penny from me until I see him."

Peters shrugged. "Boys!" he called. "Bring 'im out."

Dave and Billy led a horse out from behind the rocks…and Bret's eyes widened in shock at the sight of Bart tied to its saddlehorn by his wrists, and he appeared to be unconscious, dangling at the horse's side.

"We had to slug 'im," said Peters. "We couldn't stand listening to his coughing anymore."

Bret's blood practically boiled at that.

Peters held out his hand. "My money, please."

Bret took it out of his jacket and slapped it against Peters' chest, before walking past him to get to Bart.

Peters quickly counted it, before frowning and counting it again. Turning, he drew his gun and fired it into the air.

Bret stopped walking.

"Where's the rest?" Peters demanded. "There's only seven thousand here!"

Bret turned. "My brother has a thousand of it in his pocket."

Dave and Billy frowned. "We didn't find any money on him," Billy said.

Peters pulled back the hammer on his gun and walked over. "You're lying. Where's the rest? I told you that you could have your brother back after you gave me _eight_ thousand dollars!"

"It's pinned in the inside pocket of his jacket!" said Bret.

Peters walked past Bret, sticking the money into a pocket and holstering his gun as he headed over to the unconscious Bart and grabbed him, roughly looking for the money.

That was the last straw. Bret lunged forward and grabbed Peters, spinning him around and punching him. His fury made him realize too late that he should've grabbed Peters' gun first.

Peters didn't expect the attack, and fell back against the rocks. He pulled out his gun, but Bret lunged at him again and fought him for it.

Dave and Billy wisely took the opportunity to get the heck out of there.

Bret punched Peters again and almost wrenched the gun away from him, but Peters threw both of their bodies to the side, where they landed on the ground. They rolled a few times and Peters ended up on top and managed to get his finger on the trigger.

Bret saw in time and managed to push the gun upwards just as it fired. The bullet struck Peters, and he fell. The sound of the gunshot made the horse whinny and start galloping away…with Bart still tied to it.

Bret's relief turned into panic, and he jumped up from the ground and dashed towards it. He managed to grab the horse's reins and stop it before Bart got caught under its hooves. Quickly, he untied his brother's wrists and lowered him to the ground, holding him up in one arm and tapping the side of his face. He was dismayed to discover the increased fever. "Bart?" he said "Wake up!"

Bart gave no reaction.

Bret suddenly remembered the money. He gently sat Bart against a boulder rather than laying him on the wet ground, and headed over to Peters' body, opening his jacket and taking out the seven thousand dollars. He stuck it into his own pocket and stood, heading back over to his brother. He tried to wake Bart again without success, and finally sat beside him to wait for to him to wake up.

When Bart finally did, the first sound out of him was coughing, which Bret expected. Bart winced and groaned in between the coughs, raising a hand to his head. It was a long and painful coughing fit, which ended with "Ooooooh."

Bret waited it out, holding onto his brother lest he fall over.

Bart hung his throbbing head as he caught his breath. At the moment, he didn't even have enough energy to ask Bret what had happened.

"Are you all right?" Bret finally asked.

Bart finally raised his head and looked at his brother through half-closed eyes. "Never better," he hoarsely mumbled, sarcastically. He tried to take a deeper breath, and winced when it only served to make him wheeze. He winced again and closed his eyes when the pain suddenly flared in his head. "Ooooh," he groaned again.

Bret sighed. "Come on, let's get you outta here," he said, pulling his brother to his feet and helping him over to the horse. He helped Bart mount and took the reins, leading the horse back towards town. He looked over his shoulder to see that Bart had closed his eyes and hung his head again. "Don't fall off," he said.

"I won't," Bart mumbled, before he started coughing again. He coughed most of the way back, and when they reached the edge of town, they spotted a group of men watching them.

"What's this I hear about an abduction?" a man called out. It was the sheriff, finally returned.

Bret realized that the group was a posse…obviously about to search for them. "Everything's under control, I found him," he said, gesturing towards Bart with his thumb. "Gus Peters is dead, beyond the rocks."

Some of the men walked in that direction, and the sheriff frowned. "You're going to have to give me a statement."

Bart loudly sneezed before going into a coughing fit.

"I don't mean to be rude, Sheriff," Bret said. "But my brother is sick and Peters kidnapped him and held him for ransom. I have to get him back to the hotel…your statement will have to wait."

The sheriff took one look at Bart and didn't protest.

Bret led the horse back to the hotel, helped his brother dismount, and guided him inside.

The clerk looked up as they came in, and smiled brightly. "You got him back alive!" he exclaimed.

Bret smiled back. "Sure did…and I still have our money, too." He looked at Bart, whose eyes were half closed and he was practically swaying in Bret's arm. He steered him towards the stairs. "Can you fetch a doctor?" he asked the clerk.

"Of course," the clerk answered.

"I don't need one," Bart mumbled. He missed the first step and tripped up it.

"Sure you don't," Bret answered, tightening the grip around his brother's back.

It was a slow trip up the steps that had Bart coughing most of the way up. Once they finally reached their room and Bret laid him down on his bed, Bart was so relieved to feel the soft pillow under his head that he almost instantly dropped off to sleep. It wasn't until someone's finger literally opened his right eye that he woke up, and he was so startled at the sight of a stranger sitting on the side of the bed that he jumped.

"Sorry," said the doctor. "We thought you were unconscious."

Bart didn't answer, as he'd started coughing again.

The doctor watched him, frowning to hear the wheeze. "I don't need a stethoscope to hear _that_," he said.

Bret watched, with a sigh.

The doctor felt Bart's forehead and frowned. "You need to stay in bed for a week, young man," he said. "At least."

"Gladly," Bart said, eyes tiredly closed.

The doctor looked at Bret. "You mentioned taking a train out of here? That would be a good idea. This dampness isn't helping his lungs any."

Bart suddenly noticed the sound of falling rain again.

Bret nodded, before taking out his watch to check the time. "I don't think we'll make tonight's train…we'll have to leave tomorrow."

The doctor nodded back, looking at Bart, whose eyes were still closed. "He's in no shape to get up now anyway." He stood and picked up his bag. "He should be all right soon. If you need me again, don't hesitate to have someone fetch me."

Bret nodded again. "Thanks, doc."

The doctor smiled and left.

Bret sighed as he watched his brother, who appeared to have fallen asleep. He rested his chin in his hand with a sigh, desperately hoping that this night wouldn't turn out like the last one had…

TBC


End file.
